Slippery People
by slire
Summary: A partnership between the Master of Fear and the God of Mischief turns highly beneficial for both parties, as Loki plots revenge against the Avengers. Set post-TA film and TDK, ignores TDKR.
1. Smoke and Mirrors

**Disclaimer:** Characters from _The Avengers_ aren't mine, nor are those from_ Batman Begins_, _The Dark Knight_ and _The Dark Knight Rises_. Making no claims of ownership of other referenced creations either. Everything belongs to their respective owners. I gain no economical profit from this.

**A/N:** Consider this a pilot. The ratings will decide if it'll be continued.

Because with mediocre writing skills + bad English (my class is still learning the difference between is and are) I'm not qualified to do this justice. Betas I've contacted have ignored me. Please PM me if willing to take the big job. 'Till then, bear with the Norglish.

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**Style:** (just making sure you get it)

"normal" = normal talk

_"italicized" _= TV, radio, communicator etc.

_'italicized'_ = thought

_italicized_ = written note

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**Slippery People**

**Part 01:**

**Smoke and Mirrors**

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Three.

Two.

_One_.

The clock read 21:00. Smoke rose from the prison cell's surveillance cameras. The fake footage that transmitted to SHIELD's headquarters jarred a bit. The agents dismissed it as a weather disturbance, not worried about the Asgardian criminal still asleep on their surveillance screens.

Back in the cell, emerald eyes opened. Loki stood up, _very_ awake.

He'd planned this down to the very last detail. All sixty-four surveillance cameras had now stopped rotating. He'd hacked in and planted fake videos yesterday, triggering an overheat reaction. Obtaining the means and technological knowledge to do so had been quite difficult. Not impossible, though.

The Friday guard had obeyed, smoke detector was mysteriously absent. Men tended to give in when their firstborn's life was threatened.

According to Loki's calculations there were eight guards outside. Today was a Sunday—the Day of Rest—meaning it was difficult finding good guards. Inspection was at nine o'clock. Johnson, the new guard, was always late, and it gave Loki enough time get a silver suitcase out from under the bed. It'd blend in nicely with the gray floor. The guard wouldn't see it. Too dim.

Loki saw Johnson's shadow beneath the metal door, typing it in all the codes Loki had long since memorized. Johnson was short, blonde, and wore the standard dark blue uniform and helmet, and from what Loki had heard during late-night backtalk, gambled and bedded barmaids on the weekends.

The door slammed shut after him.

"Standard procedure. Hands up, face against the wall. Try anything and you're dead." Loki did as commanded, expressionless as the guard searched him. "Not that you could do anything without your powers, heh."

Loki sneered. His punishment in Asgard had been swift: sent back to Midgard with his magic sealed inside him. The All-Father still viewed earthlings as weak, thus thinking making Loki one would cause instant redemption. But there was no turning back from the path Loki had chosen. The world leaders hadn't been keen on having Loki back whole—they'd preferred his head—but Odin offered good militaristic trades, and a deal was struck.

"...You're about as dangerous as a newborn kitty. Doesn't make you less of a freak though." Johnson's hold on Loki's shoulder tightened. "You killed my pal's daughter. Her entire kindergarten was smashed during the attack. You deserve being treated like dirt." Where did they find these fools, hiding under rocks? "...I should make you feel fear, like she felt..."

"Oh I promise you, I'm terrified," Loki drawled. Did Odin really believe making him mingle in this human zoo would teach him a lesson?! "I'm positive I _reek_ of fear."

"Shut up! Only thing you reek of is-" Before the brute could finish the insult, he frowned. "What's that smell?"

Loki cracked his head to both sides, loosening up some muscles. He then pointed to the ceiling.

"Oh my _god—_!"

(Loki was nothing of the sort. Not anymore.)

He slammed the steel suitcase's sharp tip into Johnson's jaw, nose and forehead. The white walls were morbidly prettier with scarlet streaks. And Johnson dropped to the floor. Loki reached for the half-conscious man, "Pardon me, but I will have to borrow your clothes."

Outside, the patrolling guards grew wary. Three minutes were the maximum when it came to an inspection. Johnson had been in there for ten. "Johnson?" one of the men shouted. The response was several gunshots. The cell was rendered to darkness.

"What's going on in there?!"

"Let's move in someone might be hurt!"

Outnumbered warriors could win wars if one of _theirs_ was endangered. These men weren't dissimilar, forgetting to alert the prison authorities when Johnson was inside a cell with a sociopath from another realm. The door flew open. In came six guards dressed in black, glass shards from shattered lights cracking under their boots. It was accompanied by shouts like "He's still here!", "I can't see anything!" and "Stop playing in the shadows like a child!"

The last part made Loki smile grimly. "Gentlemen." He stepped in front of the exit, silhouetted like a shadow. Red dots on his helmet appeared, their guns ready to pepper him full of bullets. In one hand, Loki had a shining suitcase. In the other was the gun shoved into Johnson's mouth, Loki's finger resting on the trigger. "Shh…" Johnson's pupils rolled back into his head, face bloodied and bruised. "Let's not be _too_ hasty." Up above, the smoke thickened.

"Let him go!" an elderly one said.

"What, so your pack of wolves can mutilate me as soon as Johnson here hits the floor?" They couldn't see Loki's face—but he could see theirs, twisting with rage. "Keep the chains tight, or someone might _die._"

Hard steel dug into Loki's back. "Like you, unless you let him go," another guard said from behind him, clicking a safety off. Loki wearing Johnson's uniform and helmet enraged him. Guard number eight. Loki inwardly cursed in Norse for not noticing. "Thought you'd escape, eh, freak? Eh? Eh?! Ya can't do anythin' without your bloody magic!"

Did this mortal believe Loki's magic was the solemn reason he'd almost caused Earth's downfall? Loki's hand quivered and he stretched his fingers. Magic had been a part of him since birth. It was something beneath his flesh, inside his _bones_. It couldn't be removed completely, only weakened, contained, trapped, bound; a roaring beast sealed inside of him. Even the weakest spells now hurt immensely. Attempting a summoning had left him unconscious for days.

But he still had his mind.

The man behind him was loud, young, short—angle of the gun told him that—and spoke with an accent. It left only one option of who it could be. "How's Elizabeth, Charlie?"

"_What_?!"

"I speak of your wife. Your female life-partner. Elizabeth, or rather, your _'Lizzie_. Flaxen hair in a bun, hazel eyes, often dressed in exercise clothes… Remember?" This was child's play.

"Don't listen to him, he's just playing mind tricks!" a guard shouted from inside the cell. Tricks? Could petty _tricks_ reduce a man to a whimpering mess? Driving someone to madness wasn't a trick. It was a talent.

Charlie shifted his weight from one foot to another, attention on Loki. "…H-How d'ya know about 'Lizzie?"

Loki turned his head slightly. "It is rather simple. Your kin assume people sleep when their eyes are closed. I heard Renaldo Broker here talk about his nightly visit with Elizabeth. Would you like me to share the details?"

Dead silence followed. One could hear a pin drop. Renaldo Broker was among the ones trapped in the cell, as stunned as the rest. Torn between emotions and common sense, trifling little minds in chaos. _'Did she cheat? No, it's trick! But I did smell cologne on her…'_

Johnson's blood-smudged clock read 21:11. It is in crucial moments most commit mistakes. Too used to the feel of magic between his fingers, Loki muttered a spell. Charlie and Johnson were shoved into the cell by an invisible force. But that wasn't all—Loki's arm exploded. Or, more specifically, veins in his arm did, the use of his powers triggering the violent anti-magic wards cast upon him in Asgard.

Loki closed the door just in time to hear someone spew out a tragic monologue about needing to live to support his pregnant wife. '_Imbecile_.' Loki's arm gushed blood, darkening the guard cloth (thankfully not too visible), but at least it was better than the orange jumpsuit prisoners here had to wear.

An alarm went off, and the hall's walls blinked in red. SHIELD must have seen his escape by now. Loki headed for the lift, ignoring the impulse to smile at the cameras.

Whistling on a Midgardian tune—the American national anthem, if he recalled correctly—he pushed the one button in the lift and the doors closed. He ripped the surveillance camera down from its place, and he then opened the suitcase and flipped out an upgraded version of a telephone device, a 'black berry'. Odd what an upgraded telephone could do. One could read a person's life from the pictures and messages. Perfect blackmail or general mind screwing material.

Their biggest error was moving him to the nonviolent crowd, forgetting he'd gauged a man's eye out. It'd allowed him to strategize without interruption. The prison was well-guarded, but if one studied it closely one could spot holes in the highest of security. The right to read was still his according to Midgardian prison customs. In a week he was as knowledgeable as an engineer in computer science.

Through the lift's window he saw guard after guard. Loki tipped his helmet a bit more down. It felt surreal.

Orders rang from the loudspeakers.

"We have a situation on the fourth floor division six, all untrained units must leave the building, I repeat; all untrained units must leave the building."

On the second floor, it stopped. As the doors, a SWAT team stood waiting, members wrestling themselves forth in the chaos of people. Loki blended in with the crowd as fast as he could, keeping his head low. His helmet kept him hidden.

"Is this a training exercise?" someone asked.

"Does it look like that, dipshit?" someone else replied.

Special unit members looked through the crowd, picking random workers and asking them about ID. One of them squinted at Loki. His blood turned to ice.

Someone laid a hand on his shoulder and his surroundings froze. Holding his breath, he turned around. An old man stood there. "Oi, rookie, here's the way out. That door leads up. You'll get yelled at for sure." Some of the special units waved to him, and he waved back. "I know these guys, so there's no reason to get nervous. They're just like us, but with shinier badges."

"I—I'm sorry," Loki stammered, faking an accent. "Never taken part in this before."

The old man jokingly patted Loki's helmet. "Just stick close to me, son." It was only the audience arranging a road for them that kept Loki from arranging the removal of the old man's head. They moved along with the ocean of people. None of the guards spared Loki a second glance after seeing such a loyal old guard with him, and it didn't take long until the crowd guided him out into the parking lot outside.

And that was how Loki walked out of a maximum security prison.

It was night in Midgard. But the dark clouds above didn't lessen his mood. Even the rain was welcomed. Under an umbrella stood a freckled girl with red hair and squared glasses, waiting for him. Deaf and dull, but useful. She did not speak—could not speak, not properly—and guided him to her gray vehicle. He sat into the backseat and sunk into the seats. He removed his helmet. They used the chaos to escape unnoticed. As they hit the main road, numerous police cars pulled in. The night was illuminated in blue and red, twinkling in puddles and car windows, sirens howling.

That was when Loki first allowed himself to breathe properly. He cast a look at the redhead driving. It was in the prison's cafeteria he'd found her; his first pawn. Two tables from his solitary corner had some mobsters from another city been seated. "What I'd for to a woman," one of them had begun. "Y'know, one with big tits and a round mouth to—"

"Save it, ain't no gals in here. Go drop the soap if you're that desperate."

"There's one!" Behind bars in a kitchen section, a female cook had been cutting up carrots. The fool had started addressing her ("Wanna taste some real man, sugar pie?") until a guard told him he'd just gotten latrine duty for six weeks.

Then the other mobster had revealed something interesting. "Idiot. They hired her 'cos she can't hear shit, so we can't scare her off." Deaf? An idea had blossomed in Loki's head.

The trap had started off simple: a note hidden under his cup of water, detailing the guards' dismissal over his chloride sensitivity. The next day, she'd written 'no salt' on his food. Loki had eaten it smiling despite how shitty it was. He'd needed to widen her façade's cracks. A few days later, he'd quietly questioned a guard about his mother's sexual decency. She'd watched as he was hit. He'd made sure. It inspired even more sympathy.

She'd offered him bandages. Knowing she'd come, he'd slapped the equipment out of her hand, faked extreme distress, hyperventilating until she left. He knew how one looked before a beating (even the 'halcyon' Asgard had drunks and fiends) and had copied it. As well as having a silver tongue, Loki also had good acting skills. He'd already drafted an abused childhood story. When finished, he left it on a pink note along with a yellow origami bird—mortals liked theatrics—at his plate. _I apologize, I did not intend to act ill-mannered… I am not used to kindness... That is all._ Rest of it was some sob story about his alcoholic father. People with low self esteem were often easily manipulated, trusting the first nice person that came along. _…This gift is not much, but regardless, I hope I am forgiven._ He'd seen her straighten out the note's wrinkles as well as her own creased up forehead. Careful, like holding a real bird, she'd held the origami figure. For the first time, she'd smiled to him.

And Loki had smiled back because the trap had sprung around her.

Rest of it had gone fluently. His fake sympathy had made her share secrets about herself and her sister's drug abuse. Exchanging notes instead of direct confrontation made her open up more, like the paper worked as a barrier, a mask. Soon he'd deliberately pushed her in the direction of helping him escape. She now firmly believed that whatever crimes he'd committed were because of his tragic past. Of course it wasn't his fault, but his abusing, neglecting father! Loki snorted and returned to the present.

This pause couldn't last. The train station laid close by.

New York was a constant headache, with loud people and buzzing streets. It was also a constant reminder of his failure. About the destruction and death he felt nothing. Humans bred like rats without anything—or anyone—to control them. Seven billion by now, wasn't it?

With rain pouring against the windows, he could only see blurred lights.

He tore off some strips from his guard cloth and bandaged his arm, the magic wound still fresh and bleeding. A winter coat was thrown beside him. In the car window, he saw that the female had worry in her eyes. Had it been pity, someone might've found her corpse mashed into the train tracks the next morning. Loki just thanked her. He could be quite charming so desired. But had her usefulness expired? Well, if things turned unpleasant, having a human shield could prove to be the opposite.

The coat was long enough to cover the blood on his trousers, and by turning his coat collar up, he hid half his face.

The car stopped. Loki grabbed his suitcase and exited the car, the girl following.

"Thank you…" He'd forgotten her name. Loki read off her suit's ID, "…Angelica. You have been most useful to me." Then, out of hatred against her race, he bent down, mouth near her ear. His next words were not pleasant. After delivering the little tirade, Loki pulled away, smiling just as charmingly.

Angelica blushed, convinced that he'd told her something nice. It clearly wasn't a setup. She handed him the train ticket with such obedience that Loki wondered if she'd take a bullet for him. "Goodbye," she mouthed as a series of railroad cars entered the stations. Loki had read a little about train terminology during his imprisonment, recognizing where to enter a train. As soon as he'd parted with the girl, his expression darkened. He'd heard the sirens long before she did, and could already see police battling themselves through the thick crowds.

Loki uncurled the ticket, ink a bit smeared because of his damp pocket.

It spelt **GOTHAM** with big black letters.

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Inside the aquarium, tropical fishes swam round and round and round.

It was easier to look at them rather than at the girl Loki had brainwashed.

"…reverse Stockholm syndrome," the old policeman finished, looking at her through the window. The tiny woman sat in the interrogation room, hands folded in her lap. Incredible how who looked like innocence itself could be an accomplice of a mass murderer. "Always the quiet ones, isn't it?" The policeman had seen a lot of shit in his work. Hadn't even flinched when three Avengers stormed his office.

"Sir, please let me talk to her," Captain America urged.

The policeman took a drag from his antique pipe.

Ironman, or Stark, was leaning against a wall. His mask was off. "There's not much to talk about, cap." Not all the guards Loki had locked in Loki's cell had survived. He'd seen the families crying in the police station's lobby, desperate for answers. "She's deaf." _'...and brokenly loyal,' _Stark added in his head, glancing at Thor, who kept his eyes on the aquarium.

Captain America grabbed a note from the commissioner's desk. He scribbled something down.

The commissioner read through it while exhaling the smoke at the _No smoking!_ sign on his desk. He looked through window again. "Go."

Captain America nodded back and entered. Thor followed.

"Hello ma'am," the star-spangled Avenger greeted. She paled. His expression softened and he gave her the note. _'Please. We need all the information we can get. Loki isn't a common criminal; he's a sociopathic mass murderer that will kill again if he gets the chance.'_ "Please," Captain America repeated.

The little lady shifted uncomfortably upon '_mass murderer_' just like Thor always did. But by Odin was she tiny. Three heads shorter than him at least.

"No." Her voice was loud and off—he realized it was because she couldn't hear herself. "You did not... You did not see his _eyes_."

Captain America had nothing to answer to that.

Thor got an idea. He leant forward and wrote '_BROTHER_' on a yellow sticker, handing it to her. He pointed at himself. She squinted. Thor sighed and decided to leave.

"Wait!" Thor jerked, turning his head. Her hand was on his lower arm. "I have a... bad sister. I l—love her."

Something unspoken passed between Thor and the girl.

"...Gotham," she then told him.

_Slam!_

The door to the other room flew open. The commissioner's pipe fell to the floor, breaking.

Captain America held up a hand, "No, wait, we need to strategize—"

Thor pushed past everyone who stood in his way, gone in an instant. Stark had half-expected him to go right through the wall, leaving Thor-shaped hole.

"Y'know..." the Captain pointed at Stark. "I'm going to start blaming that on _you_."

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Hours had passed.

The Midgardian device—the train—had gone past fields, cities, slums, and mountains.

It passed a '_Welcome to Gotham'_ sign, its letters washed out and barely readable. Vulgarities in green graffiti had been written underneath. Gotham's atmosphere was all but welcoming. Very different from New York. Darker. Heavier rain poured. Restless winds howled, forcing trees to bow. Gray, polluted clouds hang over the city. A crimson sunset shone through them. Wasn't the sunset a mirror reflecting all the blood spilled in Gotham?

Why had the girl sent him here? Did Loki reflect this twisted city?

It reminded him of his childhood and... _them_. Joining hands. Dancing around him. Singing. He'd pressed his hands against his ears and still heard it. _"Silver-tongue, Silver-tongue, why are you here with us?"_

If he had a place to go to, he'd go there.

For now, he'd do with this sombre city. _'Not like I have a choice,'_ he thought, exiting the train, suitcase in hand. Without magic, he did not have his natural resistance to low temperatures. Loki shivered. He needed to find a tavern of some sort. Sleep. Take one day at a time. Try breaking the seals that caged his magic.

He passed demolished buildings, litter dumps and homeless people. No one plagued him during his travels. He guessed it was because of his own eerie aura, triggering basic instincts in the barbarians. A dead drunk girl—fifteen or nineteen, hard to see because of the smudged makeup—was pushed against a dumpster by a hairy pig, skirt drawn high. Loki did not spare them a second glance. Those inside and outside prison didn't seem that dissimilar. Or had he walked into a bad district? Was Gotham a tree rotten to the core, a sewer of corruption?

A store window caught his attention, sale posters glued to the glass. Inside televisions in all shapes and sizes showed the same image: a man with a double chin sitting behind a desk, talking. Thor had undoubtedly concluded that there was an actual human inside. _'To think I called him brother,'_ Loki thought bitterly.

Despite the downpour, clear noise came through the window.

_"...Urgent news on Gotham Tonight! Arkham asylum inmate Jonathan Crane, also nicknamed the Scarecrow, escaped by midnight, taking out five guards in the process."_ A costume popped up on the screen next to a picture of the inmate unmasked with eyes in an intense shade of blue. Not electric Thor blue; icier, like late autumn frost on frozen grass._ "...He nicknames himself the Master of Fear, and is highly unstable and dangerous to approach. We beg all the viewers to take precaution. After what we've been told, trained police are on his trail."_

A woman and a man popped up on the screen. _"Jonathan Crane is the former head of Arkham Asylum. The crime that showed his mental instability was the poisoning in downtown Gotham, releasing chemicals that forced victims to experience horrid hallucinations, nicknamed the 'Fear Gas'. Luckily it was quickly stopped by our brace police force."_

_"Doctor, what about the claim that the vigilante known as the Batman was the saviour?"_ Loki recalled that name. The mobsters had talked about the Batman, the vigilante that dressed up like a giant flying rodent.

_"That's a load of bull, Susie. The Batman is a psychopathic murderer who beats up the insane for some twisted sense of justice. As written in my book, he is the real reason that these demented people show up in the first place..."_

"Bullshit."

Loki turned to the side.

An old woman stood there, hands deep in her pockets. "Saw the Bat savin' a kid last week. Man might be a lil' crazy, but he's no murderer. It's some government setup, I know it..." The woman continued to mutter to herself, hurrying home. Paranoia had sunk its teeth hard into that one.

Loki took a shortcut through an alley. An amateur robber blocked his path, knife in one hand, the other opening and closing. "Give me your wallet, lanky man."

The mortals and their insufferable nicknames. Loki decided he'd do an experiment. He reached into his pocket. Held out his hand. Smirked. "Ah. Here it is." Despite an awful hurt in his arm, a tiny green flame appeared in the palm of his hand and he swung it forward.

Into the robber's face.

"Wha_rghh_!" Loki pressed on. Heat blazed. Skin went crisp under his hand. Not permanent, but still fun. Loki's arm started hurting something awful, but the robber's screaming dulled it. But it had to come to an end eventually, and Loki pulled back, and the man fell on his bottom. "Fucking freak!" he shouted, fear lacing his voice. Loki merely raised an eyebrow and took a step forward. The man screeched like an endangered maiden and crawled off like a hound, tail between its legs. Fear was quite interesting.

And as if called, a thin figure bolted through the ally, right. Into. Loki.

There was a crash of two bodies colliding. Both fell backwards into puddles on the pavement. The man groaned in pain and shakily stood up. His glasses were held together by duct tape. The police jacket he wore was too big. He looked up, brown bangs no longer covering his... _eyes_. Blue-tinted white. Just like-

"The Scarecrow."

Loki did not view ordinary mortals as weak. But this was Gotham. Here, ordinary people died young or moved away.

The Scarecrow stood frozen. He cast a look behind him. Then to Loki. He held up a rusty spray box of some sort and greenish smoke was sprayed into Loki's face. As he inhaled it, magic he'd believed lost recoiled within him.

Tiny green sparks seared, churned and hissed like electricity across his skin, each pop a tiny explosion. Raw magic fought the negative effects of the Fear Gas. Like a sleeping serpent, caged magic hissed upon awakening, tearing at the chains and locks containing it. Some small sparks escaped his fingertips, glittering like gold. The lights cracked in the air, dancing against the Scarecrow. They slithered up his arm. He did not notice. Those intense ice eyes behind the mask never tore away from Loki. "You're not from around these parts, are you?"

It was not a time for questions or answers, because it was night in Gotham. It was then a watchful knight ransacked the rotten tree, cutting of the diseases infecting it. Loki did not reflect Gotham—the Batman did, with his dark cape and demonic look.

And he headed their way. Although the apparent Master of Fear, he had no qualms running from the Batman. It told that the figure heading their way was more than a man in a costume. The Scarecrow gave Loki one last curious glance. Then he vanished in shadows, still in possession of some of Loki's magic.

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**A/N: **Y'know those stories where Loki is just misunderstood and forgives everyone? This is not that kind of story.


	2. An Understanding

**Disclaimer:** Disclaimed.

**A/N:** Update slowed because of exams, school applications (got in btw), family matters, and other bullshit, but thank you for the positive feedback prompting me to continue! I think I'll go through some important info, before the questions tumbles in.

• **Universes:**  
DC: Nolanverse, AU from post _The Dark Knight_, with a bolder Batman that wouldn't sulk for 8 years. Using Crane's origins from _Batman: Scarecrow Year One. _  
MARVEL: Movieverse, post _The Avengers_. My portrayal of Loki is influenced by _Thor and Loki: Blood Brothers_.

• **Setting:**  
Gotham and New York are separate places in this fic. New York is Metropolis for DCers.

• **Length:**  
6 or 7 parts + an epilogue, I think.

• **Action:  
**Yes, lots and lots, especially the later parts. This is a suspense story. Not a redemption fic full of character studies, I'll leave that up to better writers.

• **Relationships:**  
None.

• **Batman vs. the Avengers:**  
Maybe. Batsy _is_ involved, at least.

• **Realism and Norse mythology:**  
Nolanverse realistic, but taking liberties for the sake of... fun!  
And no pregnant horses sorry Loki. Some NM refs here and there though. Can't help it, living on the same island as viking king Harald Fairhair did.

• **Other villains:**  
Only mentioned/hinted at.

Let me know if there's anything else!

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**Slippery People**

**Part 02: An Understanding**

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Jonathan Crane.

What a great mind he'd had, the rumours said, left in ruins because his own creation. Or had he been mad all along? A month or two at Arkham Asylum could leave anyone doubting their sanity, be patient or staff. He'd needed to flee before he started calling it home.

He'd been the former head of Arkham, and knew which guards weren't beneath being bribed by a lunatic. Sometimes the bribes were money, and sometimes a dear one's life. Manipulating fears was child's play. Running through the Narrows with the Bat in his heels was not.

Crane fidgeted with the lock of his new hideout. "Work!" he hissed, breath becoming smoke. As on command, the key turned. He stumbled in.

The apartment was clean, owing to the bribed housekeeper's frequent visits. It consisted of four rooms and a hallway; a bathroom, a combined living room and kitchen, a bedroom, and a guest bedroom to be used as a chemical workshop. Arrangements had been made. Boxes with clothes, nourishment and dangerous chemicals were stabled everywhere. Persuasive as he was, he had many... allies.

But where were his most priced possessions? Stepping into the living room slash kitchen, he found them. Shelves upon shelves seemed to hold up the roof with an endless amount of books, paperbacks and hardcovers, fiction and non-fiction, periodicals and encyclopaedias, ranging from H. P. Lovecraft to Psychology Today magazines. Impressive how they'd moved his collection here. Lovingly, Crane drew a hand over their backs, mouthing memorized titles.

He remembered the nights in Georgia when he'd used literature as an escape. In those moments, he'd forgotten about working in the field, the bullies, and his great grandmother (and her pets). They'd denied him any good books in the madhouse. Sitting at the other side of the desk was horrible, listening to the same lies of rehabilitation and trust. His mind held far too much of importance to have it dissected by idiots!

At the moment, he just needed to get out of the soaked jacket.

Crane rummaged through the boxes. Took a shower. Put on dry clothes. Made an omelette to stifle his hunger. In comparison to the food at Arkham, it was a delicacy. Most of Crane's food wouldn't last more than a few weeks, and it'd take time constructing a brand of Fear Gas that Batman had no antidote for. He would have to visit the supermarket as some point.

He was heading for his toxin workshop when the door slammed open.

"Scarecrow."

He froze. In slow motion, Crane turned around.

"You have something rightfully belonging to me."

It wasn't the Bat, thank heavens, but the man he'd gassed an hour ago, somehow not in a fetal position experiencing inhuman horrors. His aluminium suitcase shone. The intensity of Crane's baby blues were nearly outmatched by the stranger's emerald eye colour, alight when the rest of his face was shadowed.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Gaze never leaving the dark form in the doorway, Crane reached for his gun.

"Most do not." The stranger entered, his bitter smile barely visible over the collar of the winter coat. "No matter. I will take back what is rightfully mine."

Crane clicked the safety off and aimed for the green eyed one.

The stranger elegantly strode forth and snapped his fingers. Something popping and cracking slithered up Crane's hand, loosening his hold. The gun fell. Both dived for it, reduced to a barbarian level. Crane dodged an aluminium suitcase aimed at his head. He felt his arm being grabbed, and using his size to his advantage, he twisted around and kicked the stranger in the shin. A groan. Then Crane was swung backwards into a table, glasses flying off.

A lamp shattered. Things around them had a tendency to do that.

Crane rolled off, hissing in pain, and grabbed the gun. He'd shoot to kill. Put a bullet in his head. And then in his heart, for good measure. Thirst for revenge drove him to rise—

only to find a glass shard a fingerbreadth from his eye and a hand around his neck.

"Let go of the weapon or I will _scrape_ your eye out from the socket."

The gun fell onto the floor, and was kicked away. Crane tugged vaguely at the grip, hating how near surpassed memories from the time when Batman gassed him ("A taste of your own medicine, doctor?") surfaced. Physical contact in general was repulsive. His attacker continued, "Fighting is fruitless. Will you listen, now?"

Crane nodded. Once. The muscle under one eye twitched, thrice.

"Good. I'm here to take back what you stole from me when gassing me. Stay still or it'll hurt more."

It did hurt. The stranger was drawing something out of him. Describing it was difficult; it was like the prickling feeling from a trick he learnt as a child, pulling an imaginary thread out their palm by disrupting the area's blood flow, only this was extended to his entire body, and downright painful.

Sweat glistered on the man's forehead, frown and concentration deepening. Whatever he was removing had become settled and become resistant, like a parasite. It throbbed in time with Crane's heartbeat, which he no doubt knew the man could feel in his hand. "Enough," he mumbled. It _rustled_ as it left. He had a befuddled expression, but it dropped along with Crane, who slumped against the wall.

He cast no look back before walking towards the door.

It could've ended there.

"You didn't tell me your name."

But it didn't.

Fate did not step in. Fate had butchered their pasts, eaten their rotting hearts, and spit them out again in an unforgiving world. Pride pushed them forward and ensured that none of them would go without having the last word.

He stopped. "Why," he asked, "would I care to answer that?"

"You owe me."

In a second, rage overwhelmed him. He twisted around, hissing, "I owe you _nothing_, mortal."

"Yes you do." Crane nodded dismissively against blood dripping through the winter coat. "A new carpet, for starters."

Confusion put the anger to a halt. Then, the man snorted. "...I have little interest in what you decide to call me. Loki. Silver Tongue. Trickster. Liesmith. God of Mischief. I have many names."

Many men called themselves god in a madhouse. Crane patted around on the carpet in search of his glasses, careful to avoid any glass shards. "Loki from...?"

Loki quieted. "Asgard. I'm Loki of Asgard."

Recognition dawned on Crane's face as he put on the glasses. He stood up, interest dawning on his face. "I, too, have multiple names—we've already established theScarecrow—though none of them implies a tyrant that tried to conquer Earth." Crane had picked up a torn newspaper in the workshop once. He'd seen half of Loki's face there, along with some headline about extraterrestrials attacking the world. It hadn't bothered him. Not when in Arkham, a world of its own. "I mostly go by Dr. Crane." He took a step forward. "Why are you in Gotham, Loki, besides soiling apartments?"

"None of your business."

"I see. Do you have trust issues, Loki?"

"Careful_,_ Crane." He did a complex hand movement and Crane flew back against the wall. "Don't psychoanalyze me." Loki regained the strange look, like he was expecting something that did not happen. He seemed to realize something. "Tell me about that Fear Gas of yours."

In spite of Crane's external polite (politer than Loki, anyway) coolness, he detested being treated like an inferior. But he was also an opportunist. "Fear _Toxin_. It's a concentrated chemical mix. Effects range from hallucinating to reliving repressed memories. Purpose? To make the subject feel raw terror." His voice was a disinterested drawl, forehead wrinkled. "Seeking revenge on someone?"

"Yes, many. A City. New York."

(Targeting SHIELD and the Avengers directly would be unlike him. Too simple. The best way to destroy someone was through others, and Loki would gladly crush the citizens they'd avenged.)

"I could do that. In fact, I've already done it, poisoning the Narrows, the part of Gotham we're currently in. It worked perfectly until my employers screwing up. Let us not forget the Batman. I take it you're quite familiar with superheroes yourself?" Loki gave a curt nod. "He created an antidote for my old toxic, I'm afraid. I'll make new one, but it'll take time. After that, mass reproduction will be easy."

"I have time."

"So do I."

For a while, they contemplated each other. What had prompted such a turn of events?

An understanding, perhaps.

Fear or mischief, both induced chaos. Neither Loki nor Crane were warmongering destroyers like Thanos or the League of Shadows, they were tools of destruction, happy to watch the world burn from the sideline. Reactive instead of active, their vengeances far more intricate than of those who desired thrones. They enjoyed the chaos more than the aftermath, and the game more than the outcome.

Even amongst the two of them, a game of wits had begun.

"...But I won't do it for free," Crane finally said. "Quid pro quo."

"Ah, yes, let us bargain. Name your price, Scarecrow."

Things were happening fast; an attempt to make the other make mistakes.

"My requests are simple." Loki did not miss the plural. "Your magic has a fascinating effect on my chemicals. I want to extract some of it from you." It could be used against Batman for his own vengeance. He'd be careful. Should he extract too much, Loki would take an eye as compensation. "I'd also be interested in partaking, if not directly, in your schemes." On Crane's face, he recognised the want for control among chaos.

"That could—" Sirens interrupted him, echoing through the whole street. Both of them grew wary. Crane made a gesture towards the door, and Loki kicked it shut. He licked his dry lips, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of going out, now that police was swarming the Narrows. "Do they have any leads on your whereabouts?"

"None. Officially, this apartment is owned by a paranoid schizophrenic with documented restraining orders from four ex boyfriends. Thus Gotham's cops, incompetent and lazy, will not check here." Having his accomplice sent back to prison to rot would be a loss. Being intimate with Loki's plots concerning his creations outweighed the need of solitude. It also gave him a chance to put a dagger in Loki's back, if it came to that. "I have a guest room," Crane settled on saying. "It'd be an advantage for both of us."

The hall flashed in blue and red.

"Yes... Yes, I believe it would."

Crane nodded. "To sum it up, I design the Fear Gas exactly as you want it against some of your magic and an active part in your vengeance." Both were clever liars, and Loki had even introduced himself as silver tongued. "If it'd only been so _simple_."

"It could be. I know an incantation that'd ensure we both go through with what we promised."

"And if I don't?"

"Quite frankly, your heart will explode."

Crane grimaced. "Are all Asgardian rituals that macabre?"

"Only the ones worth knowing." Loki held out a hand. "Are you prepared to go through with it? It'd be the only way to ensure that we get what we want, unless, of course, you planning on betraying me."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Crane smoothly replied, taking the hand offered to him. "This will be the start of a fascinating partnership."

"Yes... a partnership," Loki agreed, before slipping into deep concentration. He started murmuring in a tongue lost to mankind centuries ago. "Give your vows. Be quick and precise." Crane did, repeating what he'd said. Loki followed suit. Green lines slithered from their wrists and up, following the veins until it sunk beneath the skin. Crane swore he felt a pinch inside in his heart.

The world stood still for a moment. A long moment. An eternity.

"Done."

Crane's lungs were about to burst. He breathed out, not even aware he'd been holding it. Any regret was swallowed by the opportunities this bargain held. Unsure what to do next, he decided on sacrificing sleep for the infomation Loki could provide.

That was when things

went wrong

again.

Loki's hand started convulsing. As he brought it up for inspections, squinting, it moved up his arm and conquered half his body. It made noises like frying meat. Pain twisted his expression. A volcano of pain erupted, a volcano that burnt straight through the arm of his winter coat, flesh stirring like blackening tomato sauce. Then blood gushed out. Loki's mask had fallen like a ton of bricks.

"I ne—need... to redress my wounds. Where...?"

Wordless, Crane pointed at the bathroom door. That was no ordinary wound. Was Loki's magic this unstable? Or was there something else?

The Asgardian leant on the wall as he staggered forward, leaving a red smear on the wallpaper.

The aluminium suitcase lay forgotten on the floor. Crane didn't even consider opening it. Having an accomplice die on his bathroom tiles wasn't optional. Crane went through a box of medical equipment, and found a medical kit and fresh clothes. Upon entering to the bathroom, he found Loki sitting in a chair, peeling off fabric fused with his skin. Crane leant on the doorframe, regarding him, interest burying the stench of burnt flesh and blood.

"Did my toxin do this?"

"Of course not." Without the coat—currently discarded in a pool of blood—Loki was smaller and thinner, clearly a man that invested more in mind than in muscle. Loki was also paler than Crane, blood loss doubling effect. It was a stark contrast to the treacle black hair reaching beneath his shoulders, telling Crane he'd been in prison for some time. And it was a prison he'd come from, with that torn guard outfit.

"You need to disinfect it after cutting away the fabric. Gotham is a shithole, and the Narrows are its sewers. Who knows what kind of diseases you've attracted, going around like that."

Loki looked up.

Crane involuntarily swallowed.

But he pulled himself together, remembering who was superior. "Let me have a look." Loki's fingers curled at his knees, but he did not refuse.

When Crane approached, he finally saw it up close and realized that yes, these were no ordinary wound_s_. They were thick, deep carvings; intricate whorls or letters in a strange language. It covered the entire length of his arm, coiling up around the shoulder and half his neck as if reaching up to asphyxiate him, completed with pieces of fabric that'd melted in. "Do not touch them," Loki warned without looking at him.

Crane used a medical scissor to cut half the guard jacket off, and a pair of tweezers to remove whatever remained of the material. "It's hard to help when I don't know what that is. If you use that incarnation before our every trade of information, you might die. Think of it as a friendly exchange between colleagues." Outwitting each other wasn't the main goal of their association, no matter how amusing it was. "Tell me what happened."

To admit defeat would be to admit exploitable weakness, but no partnership would work without the tiniest amount of trust. Loki blamed the blood loss as he spoke. "I allied with the Chitauri, an extraterrestrial race, in their quest to rule Earth and stole the Tesseract, wielding me power to control minds. Out of luck, the Avengers somehow managed to defeat them. I'm now facing Asgardian punishment in the form of having my powers stripped off me and banished to a prison in Midgard, your realm."

"Yet you still have magic." Limited, though. Crane wouldn't have fancied having a sorcerer with limitless power in his house.

"My magic is a part of me, connected to my very essence. To destroy it one would have to destroy me as well. But with ancient rituals, it can be bound. This," he gestured to the gashes Crane was disinfecting with a dot of cotton, "happens whenever I miscalculate and use too much magic. Your Fear Gas caused a reflexive response from it, thus caused caged pieces to break loose. Little by little, I'll regain my full power." He wrinkled his nose, "Until then, I will have to live in this _rotten world_."

He held back, Crane could tell. So he didn't comment, just started bandaging the arm.

"What about your story?"

Eyes. Windows to the soul. Looking into Loki's was like looking into a burning house, but Crane had never had Pyrophobia. "I never said I'd tell you."

The fire flickered. "Odd. Do you have trust issues, Jonathan?" The use of the forename left Crane perturbed, feeling Loki reach inside his mind and digging after a past best left unburied. "You escaped from Arkham Asylum this very night. Was the stay there a result of your involvement in the gassing of the Narrows, killing and hurting thousands of innocents, or something else? Prisons are for criminals, madhouses for madmen. Was it spotlight you sought? Or revenge? Or simply hate against your brethren, fuelled by the memories of a traumatic event that perhaps occurred in your childhood , involving something you still f— _Ngh_!"

Crane tightened the bandages, hard. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all.

Loki looked like he was about to whack Crane's head against the wall until it cracked. But they both knew resorting to violence would make him lose their game of wits.

"Though I'd prefer if you didn't psychoanalyze me and make assumptions. On that area, you are," a bitter, chuckle, "clearly not a professional." Pride kept him talking. "The bat gassed me with my own recipe."

Not all the assumptions were false. "Ironic how the good doctor isn't immune to his own creation."

"Shut up." If tones were acidic, his would have the pH of zero. "I survived the same dosage that nearly killed Rachel Dawes—the DA's girlfriend who the Joker blew up—without an antidote." Loki made a mental note to research who these people were. "Obviously, it had side effects. Because of the shrinks at Arkham's blatant incompetence, I had to battle them purely on my own."

Loki's smirk had a vicious edge. "Thank you for trusting me with all this knowledge."

The scale was in balance again.

The bandage now covered Loki's entire arm and chest, hiding the damaged skin. Crane rose. "There are clothes over in that box. I assume you know how to dress yourself?" Loki responded with a sour look. "Good. You'll take the bedroom on the right, mine is on the far left. Feel free to use the kitchen. Here." Crane got a glass of water for him, instructed him to find the ibuprofen pills in the closet, and walked out.

They would avoid each other to the best of their ability. Quite a feat in an apartment as small as Crane's.

Crane went into his the toxin workshop slash bedroom, but was too agitated to work. He opened an unused notebook. He stopped to think, making up a codename, in case Loki should look. Then he started writing, headlining it

_The psychological profile of Mr. World_

This would be a fascinating partnership, indeed.

.

.

_he was in a bleak room  
surrounded by dozens of windows_

_on the roof, on the walls, on the floor_

_in the windows were grotesque, deranged monsters, covered in blotches of disease, twisted faces pressed up against the glass, shrieking_

_"let me out, let me out  
letmeoutletmeoutletmeoutletmeout"_

_and then the realization came_

_the _

_windows _

_were _

_mirrors_

_the setting changed and the boy was running in the snow, hunted_

_("I'll hunt the monsters down and will slay them all!)_

_and he fell into eternal darkness, and he turned towards the light to see another boy at the end of the tunnel, and he wanted to scream but he cannot because there was something keeping his lips shut, and the other boy left, leaving him alone in the dark, but reappears, blurred, with a weapon this time_

.

.

Loki awoke.

It was one of those dreams where the story had been chosen, digging deeper into his subconscious in search for buried truth. He'd been painfully aware that it was a dream, but could do nothing about it.

He touched his lips. There was nothing there.

Of course not. It was only in his mind, swirls and whorls of colour, a smeared painting of wit and hate. His body was just a machine, an assembly of interconnected components, bones inside muscle inside flesh. Worm food. Transportation. Worm shit. In his head laid the true horror, both for others and himself.

The clock showed 02:30, but returning to sleep would be impossible. Loki dressed. One could've mistaken him for Midgardian, in his white shirt and black trousers, a preference discovered when he visited Thor in his exile. A master of deceit was a master of disguise.

He walked into the living room, and proceeded to stare out the window, to the storm that raged outside. Magic moved over and under his fingers, like a green silk bond. His thoughts drifted to truer nightmares.

There were no visitors to his cell, leaving him alone with his dark thoughts. Loki remembered the Chitauri prison planets, full of blood from open wounds, pus from infections, sweat from crowdedness, and rot from corpses. Rebels, traitors, thieves; all ended up as vacant eyed skeletons lying in their own excrement, beaten (bones so broken they crawled around as mutilated spiders) and starved (forced to eat meat from dead—sleeping?—cellmates) and raped (physically and mentally). The idea of being persuaded by the Chitauri for compensation for their loss had quickened his scheming process.

_Click!_

Someone turned a small light on, illuminating the figure in the chair beside it.

"Crane." Loki's breath fogged up the window glass. Tension settled in his shoulders.

The man had demonstrated cleverness unnatural for his kin, attacking as soon as he opened his mouth. "Do you miss your home world?" Sometimes it appeared as if he lapsed into another personality, one who lulled one into a false sense of security to sink his metaphorical claws into one's mind, hunting for weakness. "Or is it something out there you fear?"

He was a worthy player, so Loki continued their game. "Curious, Scarecrow?"

"Talking about things instead of repressing them may help you."

"Does sharing secrets make mortals feel better?"

"Trust is an important manufacturer." Crane sighed, then attacked, _hard_, "How's your arm?"

Loki's lips turned into a thin line. "Fine," he forced out as he recalled Crane's words. 'No partnership would work without the tiniest amount of trust'. "I do not miss Asgard, no." In the fog on the glass, he drew an Othala rune. "I have travelled through worlds, but have no home. I was born in snow, brought up in fire, but lived in darkness." Enough to paint a picture, but not enough to fill in details.

"Sounds like a riddle," Crane said.

"Truth often does." Loki smiled bitterly. "How about this one? I'm your follower in the light, yet I'm invisible in the night. At various sizes I appear, I won't harm you, have no fear. What am I?"

"Riddles aren't _my_ speciality, but... You're a shadow." Crane twirled his fingers together, studying Loki's features, obviously looking for cracks in his stone façade. He reached for a leather bound book. "You do not cages of predictability, control and light. You never intended to rule this world. Too boring."

Loki thought of prisons and dream mirrors. "I needed to. Get. Out." Out from the basket of rotten eggs. _(Let me out letmeoutletmeoutletmeout)_

"Or you'd go mad." Madd_er_. "I understand that, Loki." _I understand you. _He turned a yellowing page in the book, and said, "You did not answer what you feared."

An insult rested on Loki's tongue, but he said, "I did not, no."

The round was over.

"I need to know of any alterations you desire for my toxin."

"If it still makes the subject feel intense terror, then no."

They had nothing more to say to each other. Not tonight.

First when he was about to leave, Loki saw that Crane was reading a book on Norse mythology. Loki briefly wondered what would the invasion from the Chitauri result in, when a visit from young Asgardians could start entire religions.

Crane peered at him over his glasses. "You may borrow some books, if you wish." That was the best apology he would offer for lying to him earlier. "Like we established, creating a new brand of Fear Toxin could be a lengthy process. Fear is a... delightful, but dangerous thing. You wouldn't understand."

Loki remembered entering the party in Germany, hearing the exquisite orchestra music, and seeing the mortals scramble about in their fancy clothes. He remembered the sound the body made as it hit the altar (what was it if not a sacrifice to himself?) that started a different orchestra with drumming feet and screaming sonatas. But most of all he remembered the **fear** in the air and the power it brought.

"I think I do."

Loki left for his room, sleepiness finally reaching him again.

He walked past the mirror.

In the mirror stood a monster.

(the monster parents tell their children about at night: don't go too far or the frost giants will come and eat you up)

The time in prison had no done him any favours, no. His skin was deathly pale, almost blueish underneath unkempt, dark hair too long for his liking. He clicked his tongue in annoyance. Appearances told too much. His eyes were fiercely alive though, unlike how they were when he was imprisoned.

He stepped into the bathroom and took a shower, old blood disappearing down the drain. Afterwards, Loki put on new bandages, searched through a drawer and found a scissor.

.

.

_The psychological profile of Mr. World_

_From the start, the exemplar must've been overlooked._

Crane almost bit on the pencil end, remembered how unhygienic it was and continued writing.

_Possible mental illnesses: Sociopathy, Narcissistic Personality Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder_

_...trust issues..._

_...emotionally dethatched..._

_...craves power..._

_.. and has a history of lies and tricks and seems familiar with namecalling (verbally abused or bullied?)..._

_To be studied further. _

In the dim light of the living room, Crane grinned. This was his way of relaxing.

.

.

Tension was like tar in mental gears, hindering intelligent discussion.

Crane wasn't unaccustomed to it. It had been beaten into him by his fanatically religious great grandmother from an early age. He easily recognised it in Loki's face and posture whenever he was near. But to build trust, one had to _know_ each other. Social interaction was only warfare concealed.

One could imagine Crane's satisfaction as he turned on the TV screen in the morning and Loki's face was plastered over it.

"—notorious for his involvement in the extraterrestrial invasion of New York, rumoured to be the organizer of it all!" The man on the news continued blabbering, unwittingly giving Crane everything he needed to know. It was a press conference live from New York, the police commissioner spluttering scripted lines.

A hand was laid on the chair Crane sat in. He nearly jumped.

"Didn't think they'd broadcast it so fast," Loki said. "SHIELD must've failed covering it up."

"Too big to be an exercise, plus live interviews and filming. New York isn't as corruptible as here, where the media prefers cash over truth. The saying is that Gotham is the city of dark, and New York—or Metropolis, as it's named on the common tongue—the city of light."

"Light and blood and shit," Loki corrected, thinking 'people' was a synonym for the latter.

"Well yes, it _is_ a city." They continued watching. Interviews with supposed witnesses showed that none of them really knew how Loki looked like. Attention hungry fools. Afterwards, footage from the invasion played along with the standard warnings. "What did you hope to gain?" Crane asked, softly.

"You already know."

Both their 'downfalls' had achieved some things and failed at others. Both individuals were cocktails of bottled up emotions and desires for vengeance and chaos.

"Perhaps," Crane said with a smile, filling in the blanks of the psychological profile he was constructing in his mind.

The footage shifted, the newsman reappearing, moving on to other subject. "Around midnight another ruthless criminal escaped from Gotham City's Arkham Asylum for the criminally insane..." It was Crane's time to stir, growing sick of listening to tasteless theories about his insanity.

"What did _you_ hope to gain?" Loki asked.

"I achieved my personal goals."

"Which was?"

Crane straightened. "I think you know as well." He had a distinct feeling Loki was smirking.

Other, more positive news came on, featuring a couple reunited after 40 years.

Crane finally looked up. "You've cut your hair," he said, honestly surprised. Loki watched him. "It indicates that you're accustomed of taking care of yourself."

Loki's lip twitched. The beginning of a smile or a grimace? "Most would consider it a... womanly act."

"Tch. Small minds assign qualities they don't posses to groups they consider weaker, motivated by envy or fear. People fear what they don't understand."

"Where I came from, magic is also looked down upon, as well as intelligence. Alcohol and fornication are the foundations of Asgard. Science and magic are considered a waste of time."

"A wonder how they have survived so long."

Loki looked at Crane like he'd understood something very important.

Complete trust was unachievable, but the a portion of the initial tension had seeped out, no longer slowing their machinery minds.

Loki gestured to the table. "Let's us discuss the plans."

"Yes," Crane agreed. "Let's talk."

.

.

He glided soundlessly from rooftop to rooftop, those catching a glimpse dismissing it as a shadow, like the darkness that flooded every crack and corner. The Batman was an embodiment of Gotham City.

Gotham was the home of the Bat, the darkness of his streets what he thrived on. Its sorrows had passed through his doors. Its stories had unfolded before him. He had come to know her people, tasted poisons, and knew at a glance what a man was and what he'd done.

Rachel Dawes' death had sharpened his senses. The occasional pain in his leg would never let him forget.

Beneath him, the streets—the open sewers of crime and corruption—slumbered, disturbed only by the occasional drunk or streetwalker. Most cops weren't foolish enough to come to the Narrows, it be night or day. They weren't welcome, the Narrows having their own laws and their own system. Batman magnified the lenses in one of his new masks, searching through Gotham's streets bellow. On a stormy night like this the crime rate was low, even with the bat signal shattered.

He was searching for clues to the whereabouts to the Scarecrow with no luck so far, the storm worsening with black clouds pouring icy rain. The policemen hunting the Crane had ended up in fetal positions screaming for their mommies, underestimating him. He'd left a trail of madmen that attacked everything in sight.

"Any updates?" Batman spat blood as he spoke into the communicator, teeth pomegranate red from bleeding gums, the colour of the sky. Dawn approached. Soon, the sun would rise and kill all shadows, as the cops if they spotted him, believing him to be Harvey Dent's murderer.

_"'I'm afraid not, sir."_ The communicator grated. Batman turned up the volume. _"...eight hour rest. Minimum."_ Batman needed no rest, but Bruce Wayne did. _"Then the old family fish soup recipe, and a session of the Chua K'a massage."_

Batman was about to reply, but someone screamed, interrupting him.

If Gotham slept, even its dreams were twisted.

"Got to go," Batman said, moving towards the sound. In the wind, his cape fluttered like wings.

_"Master W—"_ the communicator blinked red, muted.

The scream came from a young girl cornered by nasty looking men. Two grabbed her arms, prying her against the brick wall. Another one loosened his zipper. "If she's screamin' now," he said, "let's see how loud she gets when she gets a piece o' this!" The laughter came to an abrupt halt when something crashed with his head. He fell and didn't get up.

Heavy footsteps echoed from down the ally.

Batman, crouching upon the rails of the spiral stairs, lowered his bat shurikens. The weapon that had made the man unconscious swung back, landing in the owner's hand. He was a muscled man with flaxen hair and a strong jaw. Batman experienced a déjà vu. "Scan his face," Batman mumbled to the communicator, soundlessly moving closer.

_"That man is Thor, unofficial member of the Avengers, SHIELD's—the organization you researched, months ago—superhero pet project,"_ Alfred told the outcome of the facial scan, voice adjusted to be heard only by Batman. _"Rumoured to be an actual Norse god. Inhuman durability, strength and speed. Be careful, sir."_

"Get him!" one of the girl's assaulters shouted.

If things got too messy, the Batman would step in. For now, he'd watch and analyze.

They circled Thor. The matching tattoos showed that they were in gang members.

High on adrenaline (and drugs, judging by the bad aim), one swung a bat hammered full of sharp, rusty nails at Thor. The bat broke upon contact. A splinter pierced through the man's arm, and he shrieked, backing off. Like sharks, the blood in the air provoked the others to attack. Thor defended well against them, restraining himself. Batman could respect him for that. But he quieter than what Batman would've expected from an Asgardian. It seemed like his thoughts weren't on the battle.

Thor was busy blocking a bat covered in barbed wire, and he did not see the scissors that was about to get planted into his back.

He turned around to see a big black bat throw a man into a lamp post with both shoulders dislocated.

It was natural for them to meet on a battlefield.

Back to back, they handled the remaining men in less than ten seconds. Squeaking, they crawled away, dragging their hurt buddies with them.

Afterwards, Thor and Batman regarded each other, but the terrified squeak from the girl interrupted them. She clasped both hands over her mouth.

"Are you alright?" Thor asked. The girl stared at him like he was a monster, and ran off. His shoulders slumped.

Did he expect thanks? Thor clearly hadn't heard of how Gotham's unforgiving and uncompromising nature reflected its citizens as well as its knights. Batman drew his cape around him like an invisibly shield, retreating back into darkness. The shadows hid the human underneath.

Thor turned around. He did not look hostile. "You must be Gotham's guardian," he greeted, gravely. "I seek your city no harm, friend. I am looking for my... a criminal, who escaped from New York to Gotham."

Alfred spoke again. _"Unconfirmed sources say the person who arranged the attack on New York was also an Asgardian. Some claim that they are related."_

"I'll need more information."

"Of course," Thor said. As he quickly as he could muster, he summarized Loki's involvement in the attack.

Batman cut him off before he could finish, "That's enough. I'll see what I can do." He threw a black, round object over to Thor. "If it blinks white, meet me on this building's rooftop."

Thor took a deep breath, "Thank you..." The Batman was gone. Something told Thor this was the norm. Gotham was never apologized, or showed gratitude.

.

.

Crane poured both of them some more coffee.

"The sewers, then," Loki settled on.

"Yes. It worked last time, and New York is far too busy fixing the surface to care what's underneath. I paid the Gotham mafia well, and I'm sure they've heard of me. At least, heard of what I'll do if they don't help us. I'm sure it'll work out." Loki smirked. "But we have to insure the incapacity of the superheroes."

"I do not storm into battle unprepared, Crane. I already know their weaknesses."

"Go on."

"The Tesseract had certain quirks. I made SHIELD agents tell me everything he knew about them. As pawns of SHIELD, they told me... quite a lot." His memory was as sharp as ever.

Crane stood up reached into his breast pocket, removed an untitled notebook, and opened it on the table. "Fill me in, Loki. Their identities, then their weaknesses." He clicked his pen. Loki started speaking.

_1: Hawkeye. Clinton "Clint" Francis Barton. Bow wielding SHIELD agent. Human. Orphaned. _

_Sold out his friends. Killed innocents. Regret._

_2: Black Widow. Natalia "Natasha" Alianovna Romanova. Gun wielding SHIELD agent._

_Her past, spent as a murderous assassin. Saved by Hawkeye. Owes him a debt._

_3: Ironman. Tony Stark. Billionaire, son of the founder of Stark Enterprises. Genius intelligent. _

_Has a piece of shrapnel is his chest that can kill him any second after a little trip in Afghanistan. _

_4: Captain America. Steve Rodgers. Genetically enhanced super soldier, frozen for 40 years._

_Memories of WWII, struggles with adapting to the age. _

_5: Bruce Banners. Genius scientists. Turns into a giant beast when emotionally provoked. _

_Honestly Crane what do you think _(Crane scribbled over that, ignoring Loki's sniggers.) _Afraid of losing control and killing more people._

_6: Thor. Asgardian. Enhanced strength and durability. _

Silence fell, delicate and brittle, threatening to dry and snap.

"A friend of yours?" Crane asked and looked up from the notebook, where he'd sacrificed one page to each Avengers member. He was analyzing each emotion and each word, like always.

"No." Loki sighed. "He was my brother, once."

"Oh... _oh_."

Another sigh. "It's more complicated than a mere sibling rivalry. He destroyed my life. But I do haunt him. His perfect light doesn't shine half as bright without a darkness to contrast it."

"That," Crane said, "is a weakness indeed. Using your brother's love for you—"

"There is no love, barely an illusion of care, warped and weak."

Crane waved that away like swatting a fly, to Loki's bemusement. "Whatever it is, we can use it. None of them are without weakness, without fear. If they resist, we need to verbally trigger them. We'll take one at a time."

"A building would be the perfect location for that. Rooms and halls and walls..." Crane agreed. "But I must ask... What about the Batman?"

"What about him? He belongs to Gotham, not New York."

"You belong to Gotham as well. Would he not come after you?"

Crane's lips became a thin line. "I guess he would." He looked at the clock, noticing that they'd talked for hours. "We'll come up with something. If you'll excuse me, I'd like to work on the Fear Toxin before I go to sleep."

"Of course," Loki said, grabbing Crane's Edgar Allen Poe collective hardcover. Crane disappeared, taking his superhero notes with him. On the table laid a second, forgotten notebook.

.

.

Odd how successful they were on ignoring each other.

Sure, sometimes they discussed literature, music, and shared a few meals. They'd even discussed the plans a few times. Crane was mostly in his toxin workshop, and Loki used Crane's book collection to pass the time. The temperature had fallen, rain becoming hail.

Loki was growing bored.

Terrible things happened when Loki was bored.

He stood in the doorway of Crane's room. "How long will it take?" Had Crane not been so absorbed in his work, he'd heard the quiet, dangerous undertone.

"Scientific rigour and thoroughness is important." He mixed two ingredients in an attempt to create a modified version. He held a thin glass up in the air, shook it, and the contents became yellow. After that, he wrote some chemical calculations down in a notebook. "It is a very delicate process, especially considering the harmful gasses. Nothing your kin would understand, of course."

Loki did not like that. Not one bit. Believing he couldn't understand was the same as assuming he was unintelligent; a sin not many had committed without suffering afterwards. "Try me, doctor."

"Fine then, I'll try word it easier. Considering the effects of the drugs, normal men would easily submit to my... _realm_." Oblivion. That was where his victims finally went, like they'd showed on the news. Thoughtless, drooling things. "The Avengers aren't normal as far I'm concerned. The Batman already manages to fight off Fear Toxin strong enough to drive ten men insane, and mass produces antidotes for my newer inventions. Considering that there are scientists on their team, I need to make the code harder to crack."

"So you're finished."

"Technically, yes."

"Have you tested it yet?"

"We'll find test subjects in the Narrows."

"Is there no possible way of doing it sooner? I have no desire to hunt down lab rats in this weather."

Crane warningly held up a glove consisting of several syringe fingers. "Unless you volunteer, you'll have to wait, my _friend_." Loki tensed, making Crane smirk triumphantly. He went back to his work again.

"Would it kill?" Loki inquired.

"Kill? No. Murder is so boring." Without turning around, he waved Loki away. "Leave me, and don't disturb me anymore."

Loki walked outside. Coolness twisted around his heart and brain, making his mind sharpen. Crane had insulted him enough. What was the mortal saying? _'The last straw._' He looked at the man._ 'And I will rip you apart, Scarecrow, until the straws fly everywhere.'_

Crane wasn't the only one capable of manipulating someone into a false sense of security.

(Bar your neck. Talk. Really, really _talk_. The tension falters. You're not a threat anymore.)

The little shit hadn't even turned around.

Loki prepared himself for the hurt, because although most of his magic had been set loose, it still pained him to do greater magic. He started to whisper in ancient tongues Midgardians hadn't heard for centuries. It was a complicated spell, although he'd managed it in a millisecond before.

A crack, starting small, spread in one of the toxin containers. It poured out with a hissing noise.

Loki retreated, clutching his side where the flesh was already blackening; proof of old rituals and the magical bindings cast upon him.

Crane jumped, panicking as he tried to keep the Fear Gas from leaking out. He accidently inhaled some of the greenish smoke and the effects were immediate. Loki imagined all sorts of horrid beasts reflected in Crane's lessening pupils as he looked around the room, hysteric. It hadn't broken his mind just yet, and he stumbled towards the exit, expression equally terrified and murderous. "Son of a b—"

Loki gestured once, and the toxin _attacked_ Crane, then twice, and the door slammed shut in Crane's face.

The handle shook, but the door wouldn't bulge. Not a word was heard, Crane no doubt holding his breath. The shaking grew weaker and weaker until it became still. Floorboards creaked. Then, complete silence. Until the screaming began.

.

.

**A/N:** Unhappy with this. If it doesn't get better after pt4, feel free to quit on this fic.

But in the words of Neil Gaiman: _"You'll learn more from a glorious failure than you something you never finished". _The name Mr. World references one of his works (not the beauty competition, god).


End file.
